Hey Bear!

I remember the first time I saw a bear in the wild. In 1976, John and I were backpacking with two friends in Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee. That evening, we were staying in one of the backcountry shelters provided by the Park Service. Three sides were stone, but the front was entirely chain-link fence with a substantial gate. Its purpose became apparent when a black bear showed up. It startled me because I hadn’t thought about encountering bears where we were hiking. The bear was outside, and we were behind the fence. I felt safe, at least for the time being.

In the fall of 1977, on our way from Kentucky to Seattle, John and I backpacked in Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming. A Park Service ranger explained the precautions we were to take. Among the advice we received back then was to camp near a tree we could climb. We were also told to eat away from our tent and not to sleep in the clothes we cooked in. I looked at the trees near our tent; doubtful I could climb higher than a bear. We hadn’t brought an extra set of clothes to sleep in, but apparently, I didn’t smell delicious and we had no bear encounters.

In 2010, shortly after we became full-time RVers, we traveled through western Canada and Alaska. I knew we would be hiking in bear country, and I came to the realization that I had a bear phobia. At the visitor center in Whitehorse, Yukon, we watched “Staying Safe in Bear Country.” I tried to soften my fear with information and advice.

We did a backpack trip in Tombstone Territorial Park, Yukon, where we camped in a designated area, cooked and ate in the provided tent, and stored our food in a bear-resistant locker. I wasn’t disappointed to not see any bears. After leaving Yukon, we headed to Denali National Park in Alaska. Denali has a lot of bears, and we saw grizzlies from the tourist bus.

Before receiving our backcountry permit in Denali, we were required to watch another video that included bear safety. We appreciated the practical advice about avoiding encounters. Soon we would have the opportunity to put it into practice.

I was nervous starting out on our backpack trip in Denali. As advised, I carried binoculars and scanned the area. I spotted three bears near where we planned to cross the Thoroughfare River. We diverted around them and headed up Crystal Creek. Then John saw three bears, requiring another diversion. We found ourselves in a patch of soapberries, with fresh bear scat nearby. We made plenty of noise and shouted, “Hey bear!”

We had been instructed to take breaks in open areas with good visibility, sit facing opposite directions, and continually scan our surroundings. For the first time in our lives, we felt like we were prey. Our behavior resembled that of the ever-alert Arctic ground squirrels we had seen in the far north.

We camped the second night in the pass between Mount Eielson and Castle Rock. John got up early the next morning and was getting his camera ready to photograph Denali. I was working on waking up when I heard him say, with admirable calm, “Hey bear…there’s a bear out here…there’re two bears.”

I looked outside and saw the sow and a cub just as a second cub came into view. I replied, not so calmly, “There’re three bears…Hey bear!?!” We both had our bear spray ready. The sow glanced in our direction before lumbering past us. The cubs seemed curious, but much to our relief, neither approached. They simply followed their mother down the other side of the pass, exactly where we had come up the day before. These bears didn’t try to avoid us. They were indifferent. They knew we were there but continued going about their business, perhaps heading to the adjacent valley in search of berries.

A few weeks later, John and his camera took a bear-viewing flight to the Katmai Peninsula. With a guide, he watched and photographed coastal brown bears fishing for salmon.

It was a very different way to spend time around bears.

We had a closer encounter while backpacking in Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming. A black bear approached our camp while we were organizing our food, which was scattered on a rock. We didn’t want to back away and leave it behind, so we stood our ground. We yelled, and John grabbed his bear spray. I threw rocks, initially without trying to hit the bear. It ducked behind shrubs, then approached again from another direction. This time I did try to hit it. The bear ducked behind a large rock, and I kept throwing. Finally, it ran off, periodically stopping to lick a forepaw. I think I may have hit it.

We have since seen other black bears while backpacking in Glacier National Park, Montana, and Olympic National Park, Washington.

Since settling in southern Arizona, we have frequently hiked in Mount Wrightson Wilderness, most often on the trails leading to the summit of Mount Wrightson. We see bear scat, and I always carry bear spray. I have seen bears running across the road to the trailhead. John and our son, Dan, have seen them on the trails, where they have run off.

I finally got my opportunity to see a bear from a trail while hiking on Old Baldy. The trail ascends a steep slope above a deep gully, where a large tree grew from the bottom. A fellow who was birdwatching pointed it out: a black bear cub perched high in the tree, but about eye level with me. I wouldn’t have noticed it on my own. I quickly looked around for the sow before taking a picture and then just taking a few quiet moments to watch it.

By far our closest bear encounter occurred at Baldy Saddle, just below Mount Wrightson. John and I were sitting side by side eating lunch when he saw a dark shape out of the corner of his eye, within a foot of my back. He assumed it was a dog, then realized it was a black bear cub. He yelled, “Hey bear!” I turned in time to see it running away. Unnerved, I stood up and scanned the area for the sow but didn’t see her. Why was the cub alone, and why had it been comfortable coming so close? I wondered whether someone on this popular trail had given it food. I couldn’t know, but the possibility troubled me.

In 1976 in the Great Smoky Mountains, I worried about what a bear might do to me. 50 years later, in 2026, I found myself worrying about what people might have done to a bear. I still want bears to keep their distance, and I intend to keep mine. But most of all, I want that cub to grow up knowing how to live like a bear, not wanting anything from us, not needing anything from us.